Pink Seahorse

The prompt for this was “It wasn’t there before.” While my first instinct was a ghost story, I became more intrigued by the idea of an abstract "it"—a feeling, a persona, some catalyst that appears without warning. This was the result.

I dreaded Tuesdays with Dr Rhinehart. It wasn’t just that long walk from Tottenham Court Road to Harley Street that made our weekly sessions a chore. Or that office with its grey Victorian exterior, behind which its tiny, high-ceilinged rooms - clinical and white- bestowed a grim sentence.

It was that gnawing sense of defeat I felt, like a terminally ill patient going in for a check-up. I left each session with that same silly schoolgirl sense of failure—a grade D student, coming back for the usual pep talk.

I could have found someone closer, except I’d been coming to him for years. But then wasn’t that my problem? I didn’t like change, and Dr Rhinehart, of course, an establishment stalwart – the very definition of a human invariable, knew that.  So, imagine my surprise when I pushed open the door of his office and he wasn’t there – sat in his place, suddenly was a young woman who introduced herself, with a wide, manic grin, as -  

“Jenny Whitlock - you must be Moira! Dr. Rhinehart has had a family emergency, so I’m subbing for the old man.  But trust me, we’re on the same page. He’s given me a solid low-down of your history, and I’ve got fresh eyes for it.”

I hesitated. She was a tiny, little thing. Leather jacket, thin, cat-like eyes – a disconcerting, penetrating green. And her hair, short and choppy with one of those streaks in it; pink. She could barely be out of college.

“Oh, I didn’t realise…”
           

“Last minute thing,” she snapped her fingers, “in you come. Take a seat. Sometimes a change in perspective helps, don’t you think?”

I did not. I wanted Dr. Rhinehart. Therapy was an intimate affair; this girl and her sudden, brash presence felt like an intrusion. But by the way she spoke, it seemed like I didn’t have much choice. Clutching my handbag, reluctantly, I took my seat.

“So,” Jenny began, elbows on her knees, “what’s been eating you this week?”

The turn of phrase gave me pause, but I pushed on. I told her about my job. The tedium, the long hours. The abysmal pay.  “Considering I’ve been there for over a decade, it’s really unfair.”

“So quit.”

“What?”

“Q-u-i-t. Quit.”

I was aghast.  In all the time I knew Dr. Rhinehart, never once did he offer such direct commands. He would guide me to my own conclusions, unpeeling the layers of my decisions before leaving me to make my own conclusions. This Jenny bulldozed right in.

“It’s not that simple,” I stammered.

Irritated, she cut across me.

“What is it you want to do?”

“I don’t…I’m not sure,”

“Who is! Look around – do you think I know what I’m doing? Life is about taking chances, seizing the day! Jump first, think later. You’ve been coming here for how many weeks now?”

“I’ve been coming here for 3 years,” I corrected her.

She made an unconvincing show of looking at the papers on her desk, ruffling the corner of a stack of papers – before plopping back against the back rest, with her hands clasped before her stomach. Her voice dropped an octave.

“Well, that’s not good, is it?”

I couldn’t believe this.

“Miss Jenny -”

“Ms Whitlock, listen. I’m gonna level with you. It’s really quite simple. If you don’t like something, change it. What’s the worst that could happen – you might actually be happy. You’re a human being, with agency. With power – for god’s sake, exercise it!”

I was unconvinced.

“I have something that will help,” she said, “Close your eyes.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed. No sooner had I closed my lids, she screamed.

“Wake up!” she yelled. “Wake up! Wake up!” Thwack thwack thwack! With an almighty crack that had me almost off my seat, she had picked up a paperweight and bashed it on the desk.

“You’re not depressed!” She screamed, “You’re bored! So stop being boring! What do you want to do? Right now, if you could do anything? This is a safe space. No holds barred – come on, tell-me-tell-me-tell-me!”

The words left my lips involuntarily:

“I could do with a cigarette.”

In truth, I’d meant to sound sarky; this young woman had frazzled my nerves. So, imagine my surprise when Jenny, in that all-knowing, world-weary way of hers, merely smiled.

Smoking in Dr Rhinehart’s office felt illicit, forbidden. Like when I used to smoke in the toilets at school before an exam. Elbows resting on the top sash of the window, blowing plume after plume into the autumn air, I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Moira,” I heard Jenny’s voice behind me, as I stared down at the glistening asphalt, “I think you’re gonna be alright.”

 
In the week that followed, I had taken Jenny’s advice with mixed results. I had left my job, without notice, and enrolled on a glassblowing class in Covent Garden. I didn’t know how I would pay the bills, but I didn’t care! In class, I had created the first thing that came to mind: a glass seahorse, shot through with vibrant blues and pinks.

The delicate item had come out rather well. Translucent but strong; a fitting tribute to that spikey little anomaly of nature; half-fish, half-horse, a creature that shouldn’t be, but was - brisk, noble, and just a little bit impossible.

“Translucent but strong; a fitting tribute to that spikey little anomaly of nature; half-fish, half-horse, a creature that shouldn’t be, but was - brisk, noble, and just a little bit impossible.”

I’d intended it as a thank-you. Only afterwards did I realise where the inspiration came from.

However, when I arrived at the office, my confidence wavered. What if Rhinehart had returned?  

The receptionist glanced at me, her expression grim. “I’m afraid Dr. Reinhart isn’t taking any patients at the moment,” she said.
           
My heart soared. “That’s ok! I was rather hoping to see Jenny...”

She frowned. Lowering her voice, she said something that broke me out in goosebumps.

“Jenny? Oh, dear. She’s… one of Dr Rhinehart’s more challenging patients.”

I swallowed hard.

“Patient?”

“It appears after her session last week, she…. well, choked him. With a paperweight of all things, it was terrible. We didn’t find him until the next day, gasping for breath in the closet. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.”

My eyes cast to the closed door of Mr Rhinehart’s office. Had he been in there the whole time? I could still hear the girl's self-satisfied voice, telling me that everything would be alright.

“What is it you wanted with her?”

“I wanted to…” My voice trailed off. I tried again, but my throat constricted. The image of Dr Rhinehart choking, fighting for air.

“Thank her.”